


a fantasy away

by quiettoxic



Series: the heart of [2]
Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Awkwardness, Explicit Sexual Content, I Tried, M/M, Magic, Pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-27
Updated: 2016-03-27
Packaged: 2018-05-28 22:00:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,883
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6347266
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/quiettoxic/pseuds/quiettoxic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Iceland was completely genuine about wanting to learn magic from Romania, but along the way, something more develops.</p>
<p>It's not that he's <em>in love</em>! It's just a harmless crush. Nothing more than that. Absolutely nothing.</p>
            </blockquote>





	a fantasy away

**Author's Note:**

> As promised, the RoIce side of my NorHong story! (:  
> And seriously, send fic requests to my [tumblr](http://quiettoxic.tumblr.com). I will do my best!
> 
> This title from the Poets of the Fall song Show Me This Life. Series title from the song Temple of Thought.
> 
> _And if you ain’t too critical_  
>  _We could be something beautiful_  
>  _I just need you to show me this life (take me home tonight)_  
>  _Just a fantasy away_

Iceland has blown up his car.

He stands on the side of the road, looking at the sad, crumpled heap of grey metal that once was the hood of his trusty vehicle. Then he glares at his hands accusingly, because what the fuck? He didn’t know they could short-circuit things! So far he‘d just frozen stuff. Food. His pants. Denmark’s hair gel.

Perhaps it’s time to ask someone for help, otherwise this is just going to end up like Disney’s Frozen, and as much as Iceland would like to have an ice castle, he doesn’t fancy accidentally freezing Norway or something.

Norway. Now there’s someone he could ask advice from. Iceland leans against his car as he waits for roadside assistance to arrive. Does he _want_ to involve his brother in this? He’ll undoubtedly make a huge thing out of the fact that Iceland has inherited his magic powers or whatever this is, and then Iceland might freeze him after all.

But who else? He thinks about the people Norway hangs out with. England? But no, England is… England, and after those fights they had about fish Iceland isn’t sure he likes him that much anymore. Then Romania remains, he guesses, unless the ‘magic club’ has other members that he doesn’t know of. Which is likely, actually, but Iceland thinks Romania is pretty cool, even if they’ve never really talked that much, and he seems like the sort of guy who’d be willing to help without blabbing about it to Norway immediately.

So, Romania. He’ll send him a message as soon as he gets home.

* * *

It takes a few emails back and forth, and then Iceland is woken up one morning by someone ringing his doorbell incessantly. When he goes to look, disgruntled and half-asleep, he finds a whirl of red that he realizes after ten seconds is actually Romania. Dressed in as much red as Denmark normally wears, only it looks far better on him.

“Hey, did I wake you?” the nation asks cheerily. Iceland rubs his eyes.

“Yeah.”

“Sorry!”

“It’s fine, it’s— Come in. It’s cold.”

Romania smiles lopsidedly and follows him to the living room, where he deposits a worn leather bag next to the couch and looks around with obvious curiosity. He looks out of place in Iceland’s house, like he’s too vibrant or something.

“Uhm, if you don’t mind,” Iceland starts, “I’m gonna make some breakfast and get dressed?”

“Sure thing.”

“You want anything? Coffee?”

He nods. “That’d be nice.”

“You can sit down if you want,” Iceland mumbles, already more occupied with other things.

When he comes back, Romania is still standing up, studying some photographs Iceland keeps on a dresser. He has tied his hair back in a tiny ponytail, which is charming in the same way most things about Romania are charming. Somewhat lopsided, odd in a way, but definitely well-intentioned.

“Hey,” Iceland greets, and the nation turns around. “Got your coffee. Anything in it?”

Romania smiles. “No, thanks. Hey, I was just looking at these pictures… Is this you?”

Walking over, Iceland hands him his coffee and looks at the indicated photo.

“Yeah,” he says. “Seventies, I think? Everyone looked really awkward back then.”

“I think you look cute. I like the flowers.”

Iceland shakes his head.

“But that’s not why I came here, of course!” He grins. “I gotta wonder, why not ask Norway? It’s very likely his form of magic matches yours better than mine does.”

“There are different forms of magic?”

“Oh, yes, definitely. Can I— Can I put this here, is that okay?” He puts his coffee on the dresser when Iceland nods. “Norway’s magic is more based in nature than mine. Or England’s, for that matter. We’re both better with spells. I usually have these rituals with fire and stuff. Makes it seem more impressive.”

Iceland nods.

“But you…” Romania touches the tip of his tongue to his front teeth. “I think you have the nature thing, too. However, that doesn’t mean I can’t help you! Challenges are good, I like challenges. But still, why not Norway?”

With a shrug, Iceland replies, “He’ll just make a huge thing out of it. And besides, I think it’d be cool to get some different perspective on the whole thing.”

“Hm-hm, yeah. Makes sense.” He smiles and picks up his coffee. “Let’s see it, then.”

“Huh?”

“C’mon, I gotta know what I’m working with, right? What have you got? You mentioned freezing stuff?”

Oh, like that. Iceland slowly flexes his fingers. He usually doesn’t do it _on purpose_ , which is really the whole problem, isn’t it? But Romania is looking at him with expectant coppery eyes over the rim of his cup, so he closes his own eyes and tries to focus his thoughts somehow, tries to think about ice and snow—

“Whoa, that’s enough!” Romania exclaims.

Iceland opens his eyes and watches his breath cloud in front of his face. There are ice crystals at the edges of the mirror behind Romania. The man himself looks stunned as he slowly puts his coffee away again and puts his hands on Iceland’s shoulders. Iceland realizes for the first time he’s actually taller than him, if barely. He’s always taller than he thinks.

“You’re gonna go far.” Romania’s smirk is edged with danger. “We can make this into something great.”

* * *

The first point is, apparently, trying to figure out his natural powers, and figure out a way to get them under control. Romania quickly takes to showing up swathed in at least four layers of clothing, which makes him look rather round and kind of adorable, if Iceland is honest. It takes away his sharp edges. But it’s probably a good idea, considering how many things tend to end up frozen when Iceland does magic.

On one such occasion, some fairies come out to see what’s going on, but Romania doesn’t appear to see them.

“It’s a Nordic thing,” he says by way of an explanation. “I think it’s all a matter of belief, when you get down to it.”

Slowly, Iceland starts to get a grasp on what makes him tick, so to speak. He stops accidentally freezing things and doesn’t short-circuit anything after an unfortunate incident with his computer which causes him to lose a bunch of important documents. He gets so angry about that, that he actually blows the whole thing up, and so for the next lesson he forces Romania to help him control that particular power.

He starts paying return visits to Romania after a while, because he doesn’t think it’s entirely fair that the man keeps having to come all the way to Iceland, especially now that it’s getting even colder. And he finds he really likes the place Romania calls home – it’s colorful and cozy in a way he never would have expected from looking at him, but fits perfectly with his personality.

They use Bulgaria, who seems to be there more often than not, for target practice – he lets it happen in a way that suggests it occurs a lot, which Iceland has to laugh about because he really can see Romania being the sort of person who will come up with ridiculous ideas most people wouldn’t even consider actually doing, and then actually doing them, and Bulgaria just going along with it. They’re an interesting duo, he has to say.

When he accidentally refers to Romania as Bulgaria’s boyfriend, though, they both choke on their dinner and Iceland eventually has to help Romania up from the floor.

“Oh god, please,” the man chokes. “Not even _once_.”

Bulgaria is shaking his head frantically, confirming how much they are _not_ a couple.

“Sorry?” Iceland says.

“No, it’s alright. God. But— Bul, did you fucking spit on my plate? I’m gonna – oh, hey, Ice, watch, I know a cleaning spell.”

And so it lumbers on – Iceland wins a couple bets from Hong Kong, and he considers telling his friend about the magic until it turns out Hong Kong has been getting lessons of his own. From Norway. Better to surprise him with it, Iceland decides. Hong Kong and Norway both.

He can’t even begin to consider the fact that Hong Kong apparently has a huge crush on his brother. Well, not like he can blame him. He won’t deny Norway is good-looking. He just happens to be extremely annoying too, but maybe Hong Kong likes that.

Anyway, Iceland keeps getting better under Romania’s tutelage. He learns how to draw summoning circles but tweaks the design with his own runes, fails miserably when he tries to turn invisible, and uses a cauldron to make cake batter. Romania will grin when he does a spell right, correct his stance if he’s wrong, and though he wouldn’t eat the cake, he gladly took some to the next meeting of the ‘magic club’, and so Iceland gets to watch his brother and England turns pastel shades of various colors. The day Iceland finally succeeds in focusing his natural powers enough to shape some water into a little ball instead of just freezing it the way it is, he gets so excited that he flings his arms around Romania’s neck and laughs into the man’s hair, which smells like cinnamon for some reason. Romania’s arms are tight around his waist in return.

“Well done!” he exclaims, and Iceland winces because it’s directly into his ear. “Sorry. But that really was amazing, you know.” A near-whisper. Now Iceland shivers. Romania’s voice is always a little hoarse, a little husky, and so low, it gives off certain _vibes_ that are probably completely unintended, but that doesn’t lessen the effect on Iceland. Something tight and hot curls in his stomach.

That night, for the first time in ages, Iceland has a clear thought in his mind when he touches himself with cold fingers, and it’s that husky voice whispering dirty promises in his ear. He groans curses at his ceiling in the dark. This isn’t something he needs.

It doesn’t take long after that before Iceland finds himself noticing the elegance of Romania’s hands, which is absolutely on par with Norway’s, but his fingers are quicker and more callused, which makes them infinitely more interesting. Before long, the little sleight of hand tricks he shows Iceland turn into nearly unbearable episodes of tension, because there’s the fingers, but also the theatrical voice, accent and all, the twinkle in those curiously colored eyes, the way Romania will sweep his tongue over his teeth—

Damn it. God _fucking_ damn it.

“Iceland?”

“Bul – garia, hi.”

“Hello. Can I sit here?” the man gestures at the stairs next to where Iceland was trying to wallow in what, if he were human, would pass for teenage misery. Except he’s not a teenager. He’s over a thousand years old and should not have crushes on people who still manage to be twice his age. He nods at Bulgaria, who smiles pleasantly and sits down. He’s cool, really. He’s the sort of guy you forget is there and then he’ll come up and know everything about everyone.

“I, uhm,” the nation starts, fidgeting with his tie. “He didn’t wanna say this, but Romania’s worried about you.”

Iceland snaps his head up. “What?”

“Your— He hasn’t told me in so many words, you see, but we’ve known each other for… A while.” He chuckles. “ _That_ is an understatement. We’ve known each other for ages, and I think it’s something to do with your magic. He thinks you’re not giving it your full attention anymore.”

Oh, _fuck_.

“So, I guess, if there’s anything at all bothering you, you can always tell him.”

“I—”

“Or me.”

A long pause. Then Bulgaria says,

“You know, Ro is smart, and he’s good with people, but sometimes he won’t see what’s right there in front of him. He won’t see he’s an amazing brother, and I honestly wouldn’t have stuck around him for this long if he wasn’t a good friend, but he doesn’t see that. He doesn’t see what’s got you in a twist either.” He stands up slowly and walks down the stairs. At the foot, he stops, and, without looking up at Iceland, adds, “He’d like to know that you’re in love with him.”

_No, nonono_! Iceland nearly tumbles off the stairs running after Bulgaria, because you don’t just say something like that and then slink off!

“I’m not in love with him!” he whisper-yells, catching the nation at the shoulder, near the exit of the building. Bulgaria twirls around.

“Oh god, you’re not? I’m so sorry—”

“No, I mean, I…” Iceland takes a very deep breath. “Okay, yeah, he’s, I’m attracted to him. And I like him. But I’m not _in love_. I’m not. How did you—”

Bulgaria smiles sheepishly. “It’s the way you look at him. When I first saw you two practicing, it was completely studious. Now… I’m sorry, this is gonna sound creepy and I swear I wasn’t paying attention to it, but now, you linger. I’m pretty sure the other day you were just looking at his mouth and not even listening.”

Iceland groans, because he _was_ and he shouldn’t have been because again, he’s not a fucking teenager!

“Please tell me hasn’t noticed.”

“No, but that’s the problem, isn’t it? He doesn’t see that you’re in… _Not_ in love with him, so he’s confused.”

“I’d like to keep it that way.” Like Hong Kong and his annoying crush on Norway, this’ll be just another obstacle on the road to learn magic, and if all else fails, he’ll go and ask Norway after all.

Bulgaria presses his lips together, but nods. “Okay, fair enough. Fair enough.”

“Bulgaria?”

“Hm?”

“You’re not in love with him, are you?”

He smiles. “Not anymore. He’s an easy person to love, is Romania, but being _in love_ … That’s a different story.”

Iceland never finds out what he means by that, because someone is yelling from down the hall that the meeting has started already, get the hell in here!

* * *

Amidst all this, Christmas passes as usual, and whatever happens between his brother and Hong Kong at the New Year’s party Iceland doesn’t even want to think about.

“I’m so confused!” Denmark exclaims at him. Iceland tries to get him up the stairs, to no avail, since he’s still drunk. Usually, this task falls to Norway, but he was otherwise occupied today. “Aren’t ya sad, Icey? Ice, aren’t ya sad? Aren’t ya in love wit’ Hong Kong?”

“No!”

“Good! I’m not eith’r! We’re startin’ a club, Ice. The ‘not in love wit’ Hong Kong’ club!”

“That’s great, Den.”

“’N Nor can’t be a member!”

“That’s great.”

Denmark suddenly stops resisting Iceland’s attempts to pull him up the stairs, and promptly falls over, taking Iceland down with him. He lands on the man’s broad chest as they slide down the bottom steps and end up lying half in the hall of Sweden’s house, where the party was held. All the other guests are already sleeping, because normal people go to sleep when a party is over.

“Ice,” Denmark groans, now obviously in pain, but what the fuck did he expect anyway. His shirt is rucked up to his ribcage, caught on the carpet.

When Iceland tries to lever himself up, the Dane holds him to himself. He groans in exasperation. He wants to _sleep_.

“Den, let me go.”

“Ice,” he groans again, and Iceland has to wonder if he’s actually asking for ice or something, if he’s hurt his head, but then he continues, “I fuckin’ love ya, ‘kay? Yer so great.”

“That’s, that’s…” Iceland tries to disentangle himself again, fruitlessly. This is so awkward. He’s so glad everyone else is sleeping.

A door opens upstairs, and where is the wood when you need to knock on it?

“Damn it, Den, y’gotta let me go.”

“ _Let it gooo_ ,” he sings softly, grinning. “I am _so_ drunk. Hey, Ice, yer beautiful, y’know. Y’have a great face.”

Footsteps coming down the stairs. Fuck, fuck fuck fuck. Iceland tries to wriggle himself free but only makes the whole situation more awkward because now his face is smushed against Denmark’s collarbone. And since he’s down on his luck anyway, he hears _Romania_ ask,

“Uhm, am I – interrupting?”

Denmark, unheeding of Iceland’s mortal embarrassment, strokes his fingers through his hair, saying, “Jus’ tellin’ Ice how beautiful he is.”

“Den.”

“’Cuz he nev’r b’lieves it, y’know.”

“ _Den_.”

“But he is.”

“Denmark!” Yeah, so it is flattering, but can he not, please? At least not in front of Romania? What’s he going to _think_?

Romania laughs softly. “Of course he is.”

 Wait, what?

“Okay, I’m just gonna… Use the bathroom. I’ll leave you to it?”

Iceland wants to scream for embarrassment, but his voice gets stuck in his throat. Did Romania just call him beautiful or did he imagine that?

“Denmark, please.”

The only answer is a snore. Did he fall _asleep_? How do you even manage that? Nevertheless, it gives Iceland the opportunity to finally extract himself from the man’s bear hug, just in time to stumble into Romania as he exits the bathroom. He flails slightly, holding on to the nation’s thin pajama shirt.

Romania is quick to take a hold of Iceland’s upper arms, preventing him from crashing to the ground again. He smiles crookedly. His hair is sticking up all over the place.

“Had a little too much to drink?” he whispers.

Iceland shakes his head. He can feel the heat of Romania’s body through his shirt, imagines he can feel a faint heartbeat thumping away. He almost spreads his hand flat, but catches himself just in time.

“Uh, is Denmark okay? I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to intrude on anything.”

“That was nothing,” Iceland hurries to say.

“It didn’t look like nothing.” He bites his lip. “You know, I’d like to think we’re friends. If anything’s up, you can tell me. If you want to.”

He nods slowly, not meeting Romania’s eye. “We _are_ friends.”

“Good. Great. So let’s get ourselves to bed!” He squeezes Iceland’s arms briefly, then lets go. “What about Denmark?”

Iceland shrugs. He’s not going to pick the guy up. “He’ll be fine. I wanna sleep.”

“Okay.”

They trudge up the stairs as silently as possible and hover awkwardly on the landing. Romania smoothes his hair down.

“Well, goodnight,” the nation whispers.

“Yeah, good—”

“Hold up!” He takes a step closer to Iceland. “I haven’t wished you a happy new year at all!”

Iceland frowns, trying to remember, but he comes to conclusion that Romania is right. They completely missed each other in the mild chaos around midnight. He shakes his head, and Romania comes even closer, clasping his shoulders this time. Iceland’s hands hover uncertainly.

“Happy new year,” Romania whispers. He leans forward and brushes the barest of kisses against Iceland’s cheek, which immediately starts to feel like it’s caught on fire.

“Happy new year,” Iceland nearly-squeaks back. He feels, more than hears, Romania’s answering chuckle, breath hot on his ear.

“See you.”

“Yeah – goodnight.”

They part without looking at each other.

* * *

Work piles up in the first month of the year, but Iceland tries to keep working on his magic. He can now move small bits of water around without too much effort, which is cool, and though his spells are nowhere near Romania’s level, they have gotten pretty good. At some point, he’s really going to have to play a prank on Norway. Maybe Romania will help.

Until then, he teaches Seychelles little sleight of hand tricks and absolutely refuses to talk about the Norway-and-Hong-Kong thing with her, because she’s finding it way too interesting.

He has increasingly elaborate dreams about Romania and just what _else_ magic could be good for, which is embarrassing but does make him very curious. He is rather too unsure of his own abilities to conduct an experiment, though, so it stays at fantasies.

He receives a mortifying text from Hong Kong, which is about three quarters winky faces, and complains about it to Romania, who looks at his phone in amusement over his shoulder but listens, which is more than can be said for many of Iceland’s friends.

“Hey, you could send one back,” he says. “’Hanging out with Romania’, and then a million winky faces too.” He actually winks.

Iceland wonders what would happen if he did, and shudders. That’s not something he wants to deal with. He shakes his head.

“Probably for the best, yeah,” Romania agrees, then suddenly leans forward and rests his rather pointy chin on Iceland’s shoulder, which has him tensing. Iceland knows the man is tactile, which weirded him and his Germanic sensibilities out at first, but it’s something you get used, and is actually rather pleasant, but this is… Unusually intimate.

Romania breathes out heavily.

“Are you okay?” Iceland asks, trying not to move his shoulder.

“Hmh. Tired,” he mumbles. “’S been busy.” He stands up straight again. “You don’t have the most comfortable shoulder ever, Iceland.”

“Sorry?”

He smiles, showing teeth. “Don’t worry. Hey, so did you want me to teach you about that summoning thing I told you about?”

* * *

When Iceland eventually does reveal his magic to Norway and Hong Kong, it’s rather on accident. He chases after Hong Kong after his friend plays a harmless but annoying prank on him, trying to exact his revenge in the way of firing of as many spells as he can think of, when the nation abruptly stops, and they slam into the floor of the conference center.

“I didn’t know you had magic!” Hong Kong exclaims, even as Iceland uses the opportunity to pin him to the floor and return the prank, which means ripping his dress shirt open with a well-aimed spell. Iceland resolutely does _not_ think about the circumstances Hong Kong might have been taught that spell under.

 “We should start a club,” he says. “Magic club, mark two.” He settles comfortably. Hong Kong frowns.

“Get off.”

“’S more Norway’s thing, isn’t it?”

Hong Kong pushes at his legs. A door opens further down the hall.

“Do I _want_ to know? I mean, there’s public and then there’s public, guys. Don’t let Norway see you.” Romania. Fuck, why does this keep happening? First Denmark, now Iceland is sitting on top of Hong Kong, and they’re _panting_ and their shirts are undone. _Shit_. Iceland starts to scramble away.

“Don’t let me see what? Oh.”

Of course Norway’s here, because why wouldn’t he be. Well, Hong Kong is going to tell him now anyway, so better to pull through. After a quick glance at Romania, Iceland reaches out to Hong Kong and mumbles a spell to haul him to his feet. He can’t deny the satisfaction he feels when Norway’s jaw drops.

“Well done!” Romania says, grinning proudly. Then, clapping Norway on the back, “Your brother’s got talent, my friend.”

He walks over to Iceland and clasps his shoulder, guiding him away from his brother, who seems to be so dumbstruck that he doesn’t know how to react.

“Really well done, you know,” Romania repeats. When they’re around the corner, he stops and puts his other hand on Iceland’s other shoulder. “You okay?”

“Why— Why wouldn’t I be?”

A shrug. “Figured it’d be… A thing, you know, you telling Norway.”

“Oh.” Maybe it was. He’s not sure yet. “I don’t know.”

Romania grins. “Well, he knows anyway!” Stepping even closer, he starts doing up the buttons of Iceland’s shirt as if it’s nothing. “It’s very impressive you managed to recreate that spell after having just heard it. In general, I guess, you’re good with spells. Better than I thought you would be.”

Iceland only breathes in response. Romania’s hands slow down as they make their way up his shirt. The man chuckles.

“I just realized this is really weird.”

“It’s fine, go on,” Iceland blurts. He leans his head back against the wall in acute embarrassment.

“Okay,” Romania breathes. He continues silently, barely-brushing his hands against Iceland’s throat when he reaches the last buttons and fixes his collar. Iceland closes his eyes and tries to control his breathing.

“Hey, Iceland?”

“Hm?” He dares to look back at Romania, but he’s not watching.

“Nevermind. We should get to the meeting.” He brushes his hands down the perfectly buttoned shirt. “All done! Let’s go!”

And although Iceland feels like an important moment just passed without actually happening, he follows Romania to the meeting room.

* * *

The summoning thing Romania promised to teach Iceland is what it all ends with, in a manner of speaking.

It’s all their own fault, and undoubtedly in a few – hundred – years, this’ll all be a hilarious anecdote everyone is getting sick of because they keep repeating it, but right now, it’s _not funny_ , because there is a giant fucking monster from _hell_ or wherever chasing them through Romania’s house and it probably wants to _eat_ them. Iceland didn’t stop to ask.

Even Romania stopped laughing quickly.

In a desperate attempt to confuse the eldritch horror, they both ran their separate ways, hoping it’d become confused enough for them to think of another plan, but it didn’t. It just followed Iceland, no hesitation. So, there he is, running through the sunny yard and back inside, hoping Romania will figure out a way to get fucking _rid of this thing_!

He breathlessly fires off every destroying spell that he knows, even tries reaching out his freezing power despite knowing the place where they pulled this thing from – which it is probably angry about – is much colder than any ice he could ever summon. He can feel the cold rolling off it in waves, and he fears what will happen if they manage to envelope him, so he keeps running. Where the hell is Romania? Is he okay?

Iceland dashes around a corner and almost-falls down the stairs into the basement, which they usually use to contain the more dangerous experiments.

“Fuck!” he screams, because there’s no way out of here. He scrambles up when the light is blocked out by the creature coming down the stairs slowly, like it knows it’s got Iceland trapped.

This is it, then. Time to take a stand.

“Romania!” he yells. “Help!”

No answer but the creature’s gurgling breath. The cold rolls over Iceland like a flood, and he braces himself against the wall.

Fire. He needs fire. Sure, great, leave it to the guy named Iceland to summon fire. He’s never really tried fire before, because it turned out quickly that wasn’t where his strengths are.

It’s getting colder with the second. There are crystals forming on the glasses clustered on the table. Iceland closes his eyes and spreads his hands forward, thinking about volcanoes. He tries to visualize his actual country, the earth with the magma underneath, always trying to get to the surface, always boiling underneath the cool, under the ice, just waiting for one break. His fingertips start to feel numb. He leans against the stone wall more heavily.

The magma gets to the surface, he thinks. The magma gets to the surface. His fingertips tingle.

“Iceland!” Romania yells.

Iceland opens his eyes and stares straight at the hell-creature for half a second, but then he brings both his hands down with an inhuman screech, and everything goes red. He’s pushed flat against the wall with the force of it, eyes closing against the heat. He hears the creature scream in a thousand voices at once, and then everything goes dead silent.

Iceland sways and stumbles forward, into Romania’s arms.

“Oh, fuck, are you—”

He takes a very deep breath and coughs, finally opening his eyes. The basement is a mess. The glasses have all shattered, and there is a shallow blackened hole where their monster just was. Then he looks up at Romania, who’s—

“Are you crying?” Iceland croaks. He clears his throat. Actually, he doesn’t feel so bad at all, just shaky. Maybe it’s sort of like drinking, and he’ll have a hangover tomorrow.

“No!” Romania protests, wiping at his cheeks. “I was— Yes, okay. Are you alright? God, what just happened?”

“I have no idea.” Iceland stands up straighter, but Romania keeps holding on to him.

“I was so worried, Ice. It could’ve fucking—” He cuts himself off with a shuddery breath, hands running up over Iceland’s bare arms. “You know I never would’ve forgiven myself if something happened to you.”

Iceland nods silently, swallowing hard.

Romania’s hands run over his shoulders and brush his hair away from his warm face. “We’re _never_ doing that again.”

“No,” Iceland whispers.

“I was so _fucking_ worried,” Romania breathes again. He comes closer, pressing himself against Iceland, who holds on to the man’s forearms. “I’m so sorry. I never should have…” He curls his fingers against Iceland’s cheekbones. Their noses nearly touch. Romania’s eyes are a world on their own, watery red in the low light. He still smells like cinnamon. Iceland is _so_ fucking in love with him.

“Ice,” he starts to say, but Iceland pushes into his touch and kisses him.

Romania tenses, but Iceland doesn’t have time to worry, because in the next instant, there are thin fingers sliding into his hair and an incredibly warm body pressed up against him, but mostly there’s Romania’s lips moving with his, soft but urgent, like he’s afraid Iceland will vanish. He tastes salty. Tears.

He breathes a curse when they part, licking his lips. They hold each other’s gazes for a suspended moment, assessing. Romania’s fingers clench.

Neither of them can say who moved first, but their mouths crash together like a force of nature, no finesse or technique, just incredible relief that they are both alright, and _finally_ sings through Iceland’s entire body. He claws his hands into Romania’s t-shirt and gets a tug at his hair in return, which exposes his neck as Romania pulls away, lavishing kisses on his jaw and down his throat. Iceland groans, back arching off the wall.

Is this moving too quick? He doesn’t even care right now. He just defeated a fucking demon, he can do whatever he wants.

Romania returns to his lips. Iceland gladly opens his mouth to the man’s tongue, and before long, the whole thing turns incredibly messy, but Iceland _doesn’t care_. He’s got his hands underneath Romania’s shirt now, bunching it up in search of more hot skin. Romania pulls away and yanks it off. They’re both breathing hard, staring at each other. Then Romania chuckles.

“As good a time as any, hm?” His voice is hoarser than normally.

“Better,” Iceland breathes. He touches his fingers to the man’s chest.

“Not a good place.”

“No,” he has to admit. “Suggestions?”

Romania smirks lopsidedly. “Come on.”

They tread around the hole and slowly up the stairs, unwilling to let go of each other for more than five seconds. Iceland is strung tight with anticipation. Barely in the hall, they’re kissing again, Iceland stumbling over the last step, Romania chuckling against his mouth.

It’s a mess here too, things toppled over and strewn on the floor in their scramble to get away, and after Romania almost trips, walking backwards as he is, they take a more careful approach, walking quickly around the obstacles and then up more stairs.

The landing is narrow and dark, all the doors closed against the warmth outside. They practically fall into Romania’s bedroom, which is light and colorful. Iceland finds himself pressed against the door, Romania’s mouth on his neck again, the man’s hands hot underneath his shirt. He arches his back, holding on to Romania’s neck.

Romania curses into Iceland’s skin as he wrestles with his shirt, which makes Iceland laugh, before he lifts his arms to help him. They press together with legs interlocking and lips clashing. Iceland loops his arms around Romania’s shoulders and grinds his hips down, and the man gasps into his mouth, pulling away enough that they can look at one another. He looks like a mess, red-faced and panting, lips slick and eyes dark. Iceland is probably no better. He _feels_ very hot, that’s for sure.

Fingers, the barest hint of nails, on Iceland’s chest. Teeth on his neck. He moans, and Romania smiles. He scratches down Iceland’s abdomen and follows his own hands, and before Iceland can process anything, he’s got Romania on his knees in front of him, looking up at him with shimmering eyes and a lopsided smile. His knees buckle. He can feel – he can _see_ – his cock straining against his jeans.

Romania opens the buttons on his pants slowly, obviously giving him time to stop it, but he doesn’t want to, so he tries to help with shaky fingers.

Finally, Romania can pull his jeans down to his knees, and he looks up again, not letting go of Iceland’s gaze while he slowly presses his lips against the bulge in his boxers. A spike of heat shoots through Iceland because it’s already so much and yet nowhere near enough. He grits his teeth against the moan threatens to spill, nails digging into Romania’s shoulder.

Romania hooks his fingers in the waist of Iceland’s underwear even as he nuzzles against him, wetting the infuriating confining fabric.

Iceland bites down on his own fist.

“Let me hear you,” Romania croaks. “I want to know you like it.”

Even if he wanted to, Iceland couldn’t have stifled the noise that falls from his lips.

“ _Oh_ ,” Romania says. “You like that.”

Iceland whimpers. It’s not so much the words as much as the fucking tone of his _voice_ that affects him.

“Wouldn’t have thought.” With precise deliberation, he eases Iceland’s boxers down, finally breaking his gaze away to look at his cock, which juts out in front of his face. Iceland can’t look away, though he feels like he’s going even redder than before, but he swears to all the gods he knows, this is the most arousing thing he’s ever seen. Romania licks his lips, and then, in a swift move, grasps Iceland’s cock by the base and slides his hot mouth around it.

“Fuck,” Iceland pants, arching his back desperately, looking away at last. Romania hums and takes him deeper. “Fuck, _please_.”

He pulls off, but then his tongue is there. Iceland isn’t sure what he does but it is _amazing_ and has his entire body twitching with pleasure and need.

Romania hums. He braces both his hands on Iceland’s hips and takes him in his mouth again, pressing him against the door and sucking _hard_ , leaving Iceland a whimpering mess. He doesn’t think he could stand if he didn’t have the support on both sides.

The hands climb up his sides, and Romania follows a few seconds later, leaving wet, open-mouthed kisses along Iceland’s abdomen, searing little hot nips into his skin. Iceland’s breathing is high, his chest heaving under those administrations.

“Oh, god,” he breathes, pulling Romania to him again for a slick kiss. The man’s jeans chafe.

“Just me.”

Iceland doesn’t answer, because he’s busy thrusting his tongue into Romania’s mouth while at the same time fumbling his jeans open, wishing he could remember that damn spell Hong Kong used…

He succeeds without the spell, and his hands delve into Romania’s pants, grasping his cock immediately, making the man practically mewl as he throws his head back, fingers clawing at Iceland’s hair. He can’t kneel like this, though. Iceland bites his lip, then reluctantly removes his hands and nudges at Romania’s shoulders until he gets the point and very quickly walks to his bed, toeing his shoes off as he goes. For the first time, Iceland notices a complicated tattoo on his upper back, but when Romania turns around, he forgets all about it and follows, stumbling over his own pants. He bends down irritably, unlacing his shoes and kicking his clothes away.

Romania’s dark gaze sweeps over him with such hunger that it doesn’t even occur to Iceland to feel self-conscious about his body. He just pushes Romania down on his bed, crawling over him as he scrambles up against the pillows. A warm breeze caresses his bare skin.

“Come _on_ ,” Romania groans, trying clumsily to push his own pants down his hips. Iceland bites his lip and helps him, both jeans and underwear sliding off. His cock curves against his belly. Iceland looks up, then settles on his stomach between the man’s legs and licks a slow, long stripe up his cock. Romania whimpers, fingers wringing in the green sheets.

Iceland swirls his tongue around Romania, who is incredibly responsive both vocally and with his whole body, bucking and writhing and moaning underneath him when his cock slips into Iceland’s mouth.

“Iceland,” he moans. “Icel— Please fuck me.”

Iceland has to pull off him to gasp for breath.

“I’m not gonna last that long,” he confesses, because he’s already on the brink, there’s no way he’ll be able to hold himself through all the preparation needed for _that_ , much as he would like to.

Romania props himself up on his elbows. “Maybe, maybe not.” He grins. “We can try.”

He hums.

“In fact…” Romania closes his eyes and mumbles under his breath in a way that Iceland recognizes all too well. He’s doing magic. But what? Iceland hears his breath hitch, feels his hips twitch up urgently, and then Romania is tugging at his neck, eyes open again, so Iceland crawls over him, dragging his thumbs over dark nipples, pleased with the shudder that elicits. Romania pulls him down, legs curling around his thighs, cocks sliding together.

“Come on, fuck me,” the man breathes hoarsely.

“I need—”

“Nothing. Just do it.”

 Iceland gazes down at him, confused. He looks fucked out already, with his light brown hair spread out over the pillow messily. His lips are swollen.

He smirks. “Magic, Iceland. All you need, very useful. I’ll teach you at some point, hm?”

_That’s_ what he was doing? Preparing himself? Oh, fucking _hell_. Iceland has to close his eyes as he tries to get a grip on his own arousal. Romania’s nose nudges against his cheek.

“You okay?”

“Yes. God, _yes_.” Did he need to _ask_? “So I can just—”

“Yes.”

Iceland nods, swallowing deeply, and then sits back. Romania grins again, spreading his legs wider, canting his hips up. Shakily, Iceland pushes his own cock down between his ass cheeks, and he’d like to drag this out on itself, but it won’t last as it is, so – even though all his instincts are screaming at him that he needs to _prepare_ the guy, it’s going to hurt like hell! – he slowly thrusts into him. Romania whimpers, but obviously not in pain. His eyes are steady on Iceland’s face, and his ass is tight but slick, like, yes, there was a very thorough preparation. Useful, indeed.

“Like that,” Romania pants. “Fuck yes.” He pushes himself down. Iceland gasps.

“Hold on, hold on.” He tries to let his arousal settle, leaning over Romania.

After a short while, he looks down at the man and thrusts his hips slowly. His face goes slack with pleasure, fingers digging into Iceland’s thighs.

“Harder,” Romania orders. “I won’t last.”

Iceland complies, holding on to the man’s shoulders as he thrusts wildly, pushing him into the mattress. He’s so close.

A hand in his hair, pulling him down into a kiss that’s not so much a kiss as just tongues tangling, and he feels the other hand between their bodies, but then, like a flood, everything goes white and he comes undone. He’s completely out of breath when he breaks away from Romania, riding out his orgasm with hips snapping erratically. Romania curses, and then his whole body spasms, his ass clenches around Iceland, and his hand stops moving between them.

They both move like that for a short while, but Iceland feels himself go heavy and falls on top of Romania, pulling his cock out of him with a wet sound that makes both of them gasp.

“Fuck,” Romania says breathlessly. “That was…”

“Hmh,” Iceland agrees to the unspoken ending, because the tone says enough.

They lie there, tangled up, for a long while, the sweat on their bodies cooling in the afternoon breeze coming in through the windows. Iceland circles a finger idly over Romania’s chest, listening to the man’s breathing as he comes down from his high.

“Iceland?” he eventually whispers.

“Hm?”

He brushes his fingers through Iceland’s hair. “What are we?”

Iceland spreads his hand flat and looks up at Romania. “What do you mean?”

“This is not something friends tend to do.”

“No.”

“So…” He licks his lips. “I’ll be honest. I’ve been in love with you for a while now.”

Iceland smiles into his skin. “So have I. With you.” He’s surprised at how easy it comes, to say it like this. He’s in love with Romania. He trusts him.

“Good,” Romania says. “Very good.”

* * *

The satisfaction Iceland felt when he revealed his magic to his brother is nothing compared to the satisfaction he feels when Romania calls him his boyfriend loud enough for Norway to hear.

He turns to the man and kisses him while Denmark yells in the background about how this _keeps happening, what the fuck_!

Romania smiles against his lips, and Denmark’s phone explodes.


End file.
